Drunkin' Donuts
by KKBELVIS
Summary: The boys are stuck in a motel room during a rainstorm. Is it ever that easy? 'Eh… I think not. Humor/ adventure. Hurt/drunk/angst Sam. Protective/angst/cocky/ dashing and handsome, Dean. Time set: Early in Season Three
1. Chapter 1

DRUNKIN' DONUTS

By: Karen B.

Summary: The boys are stuck in a motel room during a rainstorm. Is it ever that easy? 'Eh… I think not. Humor/ adventure. Hurt/drunk/angst Sam. Protective/angst/cocky/ Dean. Time set: Early in Season Three.

Disclaimer: Not the owner.

Rated: Smorgasbord - Little bit of everything.

**_There is no neutral ground in the universe; every square inch, every split second, is claimed by God and counter-claimed by Satan. - C.S. Lewis**

**/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

There was a world of difference between good porn and bad porn - Indiana Boner and the Temple of June - was bad porn. In a huff of frustration, Dean reached for the remote control to click the television off - suddenly remembering - there was no remote.

He glanced at the retro wall clock. The silly black and white cat wore a bow tie and a dumb grin; while its two oversized eyes darted left then right, long black tail swishing time away. Eight o'clock at night, Dean noted, and all wasn't well.

When the rainstorm hit, the drops came down so heavy and so fast they had slowed to a crawl. They barely made it to motel cheap as shit, before baby ran out of gas. The room was shabby, borderline filthy and totally outdated. The walls were a sickly slate gray, tacky and spotted with mold, not to mention paper thin. The carpet was so dirty there was no telling what color the rug might have been. The tiny bathroom was in worse shape. There were wiry short hairs in the sink, the tub was rusted brown, the toilet crusted yellow, and the ceiling leaked. The twin-sized beds were harder than nails and the blankets and sheets full of cigarette burns. Simply put, the place was so disgusting, Dean figured cockroaches would turn up their noses and run the other way.

Dean sighed. They'd been stuck in the twenty-three dollar per night room for three days, with nothing to do but make their own entertainment.

He picked up his gun sitting on the nightstand, checking the rounds, more out of habit than anything else.

_Swish, swish. _

He looked up at the wacky cat clock again, eight 0' three. "You lookin' at me? You lookin' at me?" Dean asked the cat - he'd decided to name Chester - using his best Robert Deniro accent. "Are you lookin' at me?" Dean aimed his gun at Chester. A bullet where the cat's heart should be would certainly put a new spin on the 'killing time' cliché. Chester's eyes dodged back and forth, unafraid. Killing time was the last evil thing Dean wanted to kill, time was killing itself just fine. "Friggin' cat." Dean stood, shoving the pistol into his pants and shut off the television as he strolled past, trading his seat on the bed for standing in front of the window.

He pulled back the ratty curtains. Balling his fist, Dean wiped a small circle clean so he could see outside. If only he could wipe out the supernatural crap he and his brother hunted as easily. If only he wasn't going to hell in a few short months, he might be able to accomplish that feat. If- the biggest, lousiest word on any planet.

Raindrops banged against the glass, like miniature water balloons exploding. He felt like a prisoner in his own skin as much as a prisoner of the crappy room and near perfect storm going on outside. The air conditioner was on the fritz, of course, the room as humid as a jungle. It hadn't stopped raining since they got here and there were only two roads in or out of the small town - both now under water as the river had crested. Pretty much everything had shut down when the storm hit. Dean didn't even have time to gas up his baby, so even if they could leave motel cheap as shit,the Impala didn't have enough juice in her to make it to the next town - let alone start her engine up. They'd made it to the motel just as she coughed and hissed, conking out. When the storm finally did let up, he'd have to hike it to a gas station, gas cans in tow before they could blow this joint.

Dean tugged his shirt away from his skin. He was drenched, sweat patches forming under his armpits. He'd already taken two showers to cool down, only to heat right back up ten minutes later. Dean sighed, bored as ever, or was he lonely? He sighed again just to hear the sound of something other than the pounding rain and the swish, swish of Chester's forever moving tail. He squinted harder out into the stormy night.

"Where are you?" The blink, blink of the red neon vacancy sign looked like a blurry, floating blob through the fall of rain and Dean couldn't even see his baby parked only a few yards away. Thunder rolled, the sound to close to the sound of gunplay. "Damn you, Sam."

_Swish, swish._

He and Sam had been at each other's throats the past two days. They were both going nuts over the incarceration. Well, more like he had been at Sam's throat.

_Swish, swish._

Come rain or come shine, Dean loved Sam, like no body's business. But locking the oversized hands, extra long-legged, sasquatch, cleverly disguised as a kid brother in a tiny motel room with him day and night -turned them both into an old married couple.

_Swish, swish._

Speaking of his emo wife - Dean glanced back at Chester - eight-thirty. Sam had left over an hour ago.

When Dean's stomach started barking out orders to 'feed me', Sam couldn't take it any longer. The rain had let up slightly, and emo wife had announced he was taking a walk down the road to a Dunkin Donuts for coffee and, well, donuts. Sam should have been back by now.

_Swish, swish._

Dean kept looking out the window, trying not to worry and thinking about the last few days in motel cheap as shit.

_"Dude, I'm bored out of my boxers." Dean sat on his bed ripping up pieces of napkin._

_"To much information." Sam shifted on his bed, not bothering to look up from the mammoth-sized book he was reading._

_"When the freak is all this rain going to stop?" Dean rolled the pieces of napkin into tiny balls._

_"Not soon enough." Sam turned a page._

_"This room sucks, the rain sucks, the remoteless television sucks. There's nothing to do, and all you do is read and go on line." Dean stuck a napkin-ball in his mouth, getting the paper good and wet. "You suck," he mumbled._

_"Yeah, took that poll yesterday, Dean, I get it." Sam read on._

_Dean picked up his weapon of choice, loaded the wet napkin, aimed and blew through the straw._

_**SPLAT **_

_"Ear shot, two points." _

_Sam looked up._

_Dean gave his brother a wide, toothy grin._

_"You think you're cute, don't you, Dean?" _

_"Yes, I do."_

_"You're at it again… aren't you?" Sam huffed, digging the spitball out of his ear with one finger._

_"Yes, I am," Dean said with pride._

_"I thought we put a stop to all this after the whole duct tape fest," Sam cocked his head, the spitball falling out of his ear to the bed. "Took me two hours to break loose from that chair," Sam gripped, flicking the spitball to the floor._

_"Yes, it did." Dean grinned wickedly. "Teach you to fall asleep sitting up. Ha!"_

_"Very funny." Sam thumped the book shut. _

_"Hey, I'm sticking to the deal, staying on my side of the room," Dean defended himself pointing a finger up and down the imaginary line between them._

_"And of course, your side is the side with the bathroom, and mini fridge." Sam rolled his eyes. _

_"But your side has that cool hole in the wall, like the girl's shower scene in Porkey's." Dean chuckled, "You should go take a peek or better yet, Sam, put your di…" _

_"Don't say it." Sam held up a hand, "Just don't say it." He quirked his lower lip in disgust. "Look, can you just knock it off, Dean. Thumb wars, pillow fights, shoving contests, booby trapping the toilet," Sam huffed, "Next you'll be using your knife on my cell phone... for target practice."_

_"Phone darts. Ooooh, good one, Sammy." Dean glanced around. "Your phone on my side?"_

_"You're not touching my phone, Dean," Sam growled. "Man, you're nerve racking and I'm sick of it."_

_"I'm not nerve racking, I'm bored."_

_"Dude, you touch my phone and that's strike three," Sam barked._

_"What happens after strike four?" _

_"Touch my phone and find out."_

_Dean reloaded his straw using two spitballs and blew._

_**Splat**_

_He nailed Sam in the shoulder. "Oh, yeah, a double hitter."_

_"How many times are you going to do that?" Sam snipped._

_Dean blew another spitball hitting Sam in the chest. "Eleven more times." He nodded happily._

_"You're a jerk," Sam drawled sarcastically._

_"No, I told you, I'm bored."_

_"So."_

_"So, the only way to kick being bored, is to mess with my baby brother."_

_"How about you try reading a book," Sam suggested. "Oh, wait…forgot…I don't have any picture books, no primary reading, no erotic, graphic novels featuring full colored centerfolds." _

_"How about I give you lessons on how to kiss my ass." Dean shot a spitball._

_**Splat**_

_He pegged Sam's forehead. "Bulls-eye."_

_"Dean," Sam spat, dropping the big book with a dusty thump to the nightstand. "You…never mind." He got up and headed to the bathroom._

_"My side, bitch," Dean glared at Sam as he crossed the imaginary no-man's-land line._

_"Bite me." Sam slammed the bathroom door shut._

_"Poor sport," Dean whispered under his breath. _

_"This storm isn't stopping anytime soon," Sam called out from behind the closed door. "We're not leaving this room, Dean, so I suggest you stop playing games."_

_"Yeah, sure." Dean grabbed Sam's book of the week off the nightstand and flopped back on his bed. _

_He mouthed the title, and frowned. If ever a wiz there was - Sam was it. Because, because, because every book he read, every single word - held the weight of the world. Dean opened the book and scanned the words. Of course - not even in English. Dean pressed his lips together tightly. He'd warned Sam about trying to find a loophole in his deal. Who was the kid, kidding. Did Sam really think he could fool him. _

_"Damn you, Sam." _

_The thought of his brother dropping dead at his feet for just reading about ways out of hell made Dean tremble, sending Sam's bookmarker sliding out from between the word-crowded pages. _

_"You lost my page." Sam stood in the bathroom doorway, staring down his nose at Dean, hands on his hips. _

_Startled, Dean fumbled for the marker, trying to find the page he'd lost - that'd be a bust._

_"Didn't you?" Sam pressed._

_"No." Dean shoved the bookmarker back in any ol' place._

_"Thanks a lot." Sam stomped over to the chair, grabbing his hoodie off the back._

_"Screw you, Sam," Dean said in a low and threatening tone, "What'd I tell you about trying to find me a way out?"_

_"I'm not."_

_"Then what's this?" Dean held the heavy book up. "Big Brothers are from Mars, Princesses - that'd be you, Sam - are from Venus?"_

_Sam tisked._

_"Did you really think researching in another language would fool me?"_

_"It's a bedtime story," Sam deadpanned, looking away. _

_"Friggin' hilarious." _

_"Yeah, going to hell is so funny, Dean, can't you hear me laughing?" Sam stormed across the room, grabbing his wallet off the highboy dresser._

_"Where you going?" Dean asked, suspiciously._

_"This poor sport's going out." _

_"Poor spor…anyone ever tell you it's not polite to ease drop?" Dean set the book on the bed beside him. _

_"Yeah, you."_

_"You're not going out," Dean insisted._

_"Yes, I am."_

_"Where?"_

_"I said, out."_

_"And I said, no you're not."_

_"I'm not your wife, Dean, I can go out without your permission."_

_Dean bit into his lower lip. He couldn't blame his brother for wanting to try to break the deal. Dean would do the same thing if he stood in Sam's size thirteen boots. He certainly didn't want to go to hell, was scared to death, but he sure wasn't going to admit that or risk Sam's soul to earn his. Getting out of hell free was not an option. Besides, nobody left this planet alive, anyway, so Dean silenced his fear. Day after day. Masking his emotions with whatever he had on hand. At the moment, annoying Sam was what he had on hand. _

_Dean blew through his straw, landing another spitball in Sam's hair. "Touchdown."_

_Sam scrunched up his face, angrily clenching his fists at his sides._

_Dean shrugged. "Can't help if I'm a good shot."_

_"I'm not here to save you from the perils of boredom," Sam sighed._

_"You're not here to save me at all," Dean stated sternly._

_"Yeah, okay." Sam walked stiffly over to the window and peered out. "Whatever."_

_"Don't, yeah, okay, whatever me, Sam."_

_"Going to the twenty-four hour Dunkin Donuts just down the road, happy now?"_

_"It's pouring." Dean tipped his chin toward the window. "They're probably closed."_

_"Rain slowed down a bit." Sam turned from the window, stubbornly tugging his hoodie over his head. "Besides," he said, his voice muffled as he struggled to get his head through the opening. "Dunkin Donuts never closes."_

_"True." Dean blew a spitball nailing Sam in the right eye just as his head poked out. "He shoots, he scores, and the crowd goes wild." Dean made breathy 'roar of the crowd' sounds, waving his hands about wildly for effect._

_"Dean, come-oh forget it." Sam headed for the door, pulling his hood up, he marched out into the rain._

_"Bring me jelly, " Dean yelled reluctantly, just as the door slammed shut._

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

A clash of thunder brought Dean flinching back to the present. "Any slower, Sammy, and turtles could beat your pain in the ass back here," he grumbled.

_Swish, swish _- time ticked on.

Dean's imagination began to run away with him. Maybe emo wife-boy had stopped to get his nails done all pretty and pink. Or he'd caffinated himself under a Dunkin Donut's table. Kid never could hold his coffee. Or, Sam could be hurt, kidnapped, drowned, stabbed, struck by lightning and roasted like the marshmallow he was. His brother always found trouble. Some way. Some how. Heck, he could probably bleed to death from a papercut.

_Swish, swish. _

Dean turned, his eyes tracking the damn cat's dodgy eyes as the shifted slyly back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and…

"What the hell do you know about any of this?" Dean snarled.

The cat silently laughed at him, the hands of the clock reading nine thirty-five.

"Friggin' cat. Shut up, Chester," Dean barked at the feline. "This is stupid." He dug his cell out of his jean's pocket and flipped it open. Just before Dean could hit speed dial there came a knock at the door. "About damn time." He let the curtain fall back in place, stuffing his phone away and taking the lousy three steps to the door.

The knocking turned to banging.

"I'm coming, man, what'd you do forget your key?" Dean's hand paused on the doorknob. "Who is it?" he snickered under his breath.

"Your emo wife," came the soggy, muffled reply.

"I divorced his ass weeks ago."

"Dude!" The banging turned to kicking.

"Forget the jewelry…I want my alimony check," Dean laughed.

"Open up! Hurry, man, there's something out here," Sam shouted in a high-pitched tone.

Fear flashed through Dean, faster than lightning. "Crap." He pulled his pistol from his waistband and whipped the door open.

Sam stood straight and tall a frown frozen on his face. His hair poked out from under his hoodie, rainwater rolling off each strand to patter to the wet donut box he held precariously between both hands.

"What? What's out there?" Dean aimed his gun past Sam, searching the night.

TBC…


	2. Chapter 2

DRUNKIN'

DONUTS

Chapter two

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam stepped past Dean, pulling his hood down. "Rain, man, lots and lots of rain." He shook his head, droplets sailing every which way.

"You…you're…you," Dean snarled, slamming the door shut using his boot. "You're in trouble now." He jammed his gun back into his pants.

Sam sulked over to the small dinette table, dropping the soggy white, orange and pink box down.

"Where you been?" Dean demanded, stomping over to inspect the box.

"Oh, I don't know, Dean. Was such a nice day I thought I'd sit in the park, feed the ducks."

"Smart ass." Dean opened the soggy lid.

"I wasn't gone that long." Sam took a glazed donut from the box. "What time is it?"

"Half past crazy," Dean said dryly.

"Look, " Sam took a bite out of his donut. "By the time I got to Dunkin Donuts rain was coming down in droves," he swallowed.

"Droves?" Dean questioned. "What are you from Texas?"

Ignoring Dean, Sam said, "I was waiting for the rain to slow again before heading back, okay?"

"You could have called." Dean plucked a jelly donut out of the dozen.

"We needed some space," Sam said softly.

Dean eyed the treat and winced. His stomach was no longer barking out orders to 'feed me'. Dean swallowed, there'd be plenty of space between them soon enough, he dropped the donut back into the box.

"Thought you were hungry?" Sam finished off his donut, wiping his hands on his shirt.

Dean shrugged.

"You were worried," Sam offered, a small smile crossing his face.

"No." Dean did an about-face and walked away.

"Then what's with the attitude problem?"

"Chester's the one with the attitude problem. I'm delightful."

"Who's Chester?"

Dean flopped down on his bed, staring straight at Sam, he pointed at the wall clock. "Sam, Chester. Chester, Sam."

The super creepy cat's eyes shot back and forth, the swish, swish of the pendulum tail forever keeping time. Dean wished he could wipe the goofy grin off Chester's face and put it on Sam's - oh, but wait, his brother was born with a goofy grin. He wished he could rip the cat's tail off and turn back time. Dean blew out an uneasy breath. Wishes were as bad as ifs - they were big and lousy and not ever going to happen. It wasn't just being cooped up in the tiny shoebox of a room that was bothering him, them, Dean knew it was the tension of the job. His fear. Sam's guilt, over the whole going to hell deal. His time was coming due, closer and closer with each swish of Chester's tail.

"Eww, he is creepy." Sam's eyes moved in time with Chester's - back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and… "So," Sam shook his head, obviously trying to focus his attention back on Dean. "So, if you're so delightful, why don't you look delightful?"

_Swish, swish._

"Dude, my delightfulness is shooting Rainbow Skittles out my ass… catch yourself one," Dean drawled, sarcastically.

_Swish, swish._

Sam blew out a long breathy sigh, "Dean, I thought a little time to cool off might help. I'm tired. Tired of fighting about fighting. Tired of tiptoeing around you. Maybe we should talk about…" Sam canted his head. "You know."

_Swish, swish._

"Sam, no. No more talk. No more spitballs. No more nothing. We're both tired. Just get out of those wet clothes and go rock out with your laptop or something." Dean rolled over onto his side, close-pressing his pillow around his ears.

_Swish, swish._

The never-ending drone of time continued to pass by as fast, if not faster, than the rain falling from the sky.

"Shut up, Chester," they yelled in unison.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This was one great gig. Dean smiled, eyeing the smokin' hot, half-naked bodies strutting across the stage before him. He leaned far back in his chair studying each and every curve of the exotic, erotic, sexy, and very naughty looking women that paraded past him one-by-one on the small stage. Velvet lips blew kisses his way. Bluer than blue eyes winked. A red headed girl flashed him a sneak peek of her butterfly tattoo. Dean could feel himself blush, he never blushed. Being the judge, jury and grand prize of his very own bikini contest - was a tough job, but, as the old saying went - someone had to do it.

How was he going to pick just one lady? Dean swiped the beads of sweat off his brow. A long-legged, long-haired brunet with grey-blue eyes and pouty lips stood a-la-natural before him. Dean could feel his temperature rising hot, hot, hot. If Angelina Jolie had a twin sister she was it - in spades. The flawless woman bent over seductively. Dean leaned forward, closing his eyes and parting his lips. Her fingers caressed the back of his neck as she drew him close. This was her. He had his winner, and didn't all hard-working bikini contest judges deserve a little fun? Their lips met, soft mewling sounds purred deep in her throat. Dean pulled her from the stage and she landed in his lap. She was perfect, a ten, maybe even a twelve, exactly what his downstairs brain had ordered. She kissed him long and soft. Her mewling turned to grunting, snorting, slurping, drooling, her cheeks flapping in the wind like a bulldog.

"Aw, gross." Dean shot straight up in bed, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth. "Who the…" He glanced around, searching for his beautiful contest winner. "What the …bleep, bleep, bleep." Dean glared across the room. Sam was sleeping at the small table, shaggy head laying on top his laptop's keyboard. "Sam," he called out. Sam snored on like a lawn mower trying to mow its way out of a deep, dark cave. "Damn you, Sam, you ruined the perfect dream, wake up." Sam wiggled his head. The laptop beeped, the lawn mower coming out of its cave and turning into a whiny puppy dog. "Hey." Dean angrily snatched his pillow from behind him, launching the cushion at Sam's head. "I said, wake up."

Sam slapped at his face. "Huh-what-why?" He bolted upright, eyes immediately locking on Dean. "What?" His features twisted in confusion.

"The hell you doing?" Dean growled.

Sam glanced down at the keyboard, long bangs falling over his eyes. "Rocking out on my laptop, like you told me to," he muttered groggily.

"More like drooling on it," Dean snapped.

"Why?" Sam wiped the drool from his lips. "Wha' you doing?

"I was enjoying," Dean paused, no longer hearing rain pelting against the window. "The peace and quiet," he lied, waving a hand toward the window. "Since it finally stopped raining." He scooted back against the headboard. "Maybe we can blow this place soon. I can't take much more of this room, or your..." Dean cocked his head to one side noticing an ice bucket, an empty glass, and his bottle of Jack sitting on the table next to the laptop. "You drank all my whiskey." He pointed an accusing finger at the half-empty bottle.

"Not all," Sam garbled "Still some left." He picked up the bottle, poured some into the glass, and swallowed a big mouthful.

"Damn it, Sam, are you drunk?"

Sam gave a goofy smile, knocking back more Jack.

"Answer me."

Sam peered at Dean through a drape of unruly bangs. He exchanged the glass for drinking straight out of the bottle.

"Are you drunk?" Dean repeated louder.

Sam tipped the bottle to his lips and took another deep swig, wiping the drops of Jack that dribbled out the side of his mouth and down his chin.

"Can you stop that and answer me?" Dean huffed, already knowing the truth.

Sam set the bottle down with a sloshy clunk.

"Sam."

"Yeah," Sam stood to wobbly legs, "So." His feet crisscrossed as he made his way toward Dean. "Oops." His feet jumbled together and he sank to his knees next to the empty Dunkin Donut box. "Dean." He shook his head. "I fell."

"Takes talent." Dean swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat on the edge, glaring at the box. "What'd you do?" Dean frowned. "Eat all the donuts, too?"

"Well, yaaaaaaa," Sam chuckled, fidgeting on the floor. "Can you help me up?"

"No, you moron," Dean grouched. "What were you thinking?"

"I was bored," Sam grinned, rolling his eyes up so far Dean thought they'd get stuck that way.

"Cute, Sam, real cute."

"Geeze." Sam pushed himself drunkenly back to his feet. "What'd you do? Wake up on the wrong side of the bed."

"Dude, I woke up on the awesome side of the bed."

"Lemme guess." Sam teetered left. "'Cause you think you're awesome?" he laughed loudly.

"No, Sam, because I think I suck." Dean sat back against the headboard, crossing his legs at the ankles. "So, when did it stop raining? Maybe we can blow this place soon," Dean lowered his voice to a whisper, "Before I have to declare myself insane."

Sam staggered across the room, and peered out the window. "Eh, Dean."

"You gonna puke? You puke, you clean it up, bro."

"It's still pouring, man."

"Shut up, Sam, only thing pouring around here is your mouth."

"It's pouring." Sam pressed a hand flat to the window. "Rain." He swayed drunkenly

"Sam, do I look drunk to you?"

"Come look for yourself."

"You look for the both of us." Dean crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

"I'm telling you, Dean it's still raining.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

"Tapping on the window…bush league, Sam, you'll have to do better than that."

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

"Okay, so it's not raining, its hailing, now," Dean, said drowsily. "Go back to sleep, drool on your pillow this time."

The tapping turned to knocking.

"Dean," Sam scolded.

"Golf ball-sized hail," Dean grumbled, not moving.

The knocking turned to banging.

"Sam, this isn't going to work. Put your drunk ass to bed and let's just get along until this storm passes."

"I don't believe you," Sam screeched.

"That's what you said when I told you there was no Tooth Fairy, dork," Dean huffed, slipping down to lay on his side, blindly searching for his pillow. "If you don't stop that, I'm going to make you cry just like you did back then."

The banging stopped. "I thought so," Dean said triumphantly. "Toss me back my pillow, woman."

Dean's bed suddenly started to shake, thumping up an down on the floor. "Are you friggin' kidding me," he snarled, shooting upright. "Sam, I said quit…" Dean gaped in shock at his brother standing stiffly at the foot of his bed. "Does this look bush league to you?" Sam cocked his head to one side. "No hands." Sam wiggled his fingers, flashing Dean a satisfied smile.

"Son of a bitch." Dean flew off the bed, watching in shock as bed thumped up and down two more times by itself, then stilled.

"I told you so," Sam whined, like a five-year-old.

"Shut up." Dean brushed past Sam, heading toward the window to check outside, only halfway across the room he stopped. "Brrr." He shivered.

"What?"

"Cold spot." Dean shook off the feeling, marched to the window and drew back the curtains. "That," Dean turned to face Sam. "Is so wrong. It's pouring, and not making a sound."

"Know what else isn't making a sound?" Sam jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Check it out."

Dean's eyes popped wide. "Chester!" He registered, staring at the wall cat's tail had stopped swishing, the hands of time frozen on three am, the cat's eyes also motionless, staring off to the left. Dean frowned at Sam, completely surprised. "How's that go?"

"Tried to tell you."

A gust of cold wind blew through the room, sending a lamp crashing into a wall.

"Holy sister of Angelina Jolie." Dean ran to the duffle bag for the salt gun. "Sam, check the salt lines."

The wind picked up again, blowing the cigarette burnt blankets and sheets off the beds and rattling the thin walls.

"Salt's good," Sam called out.

Dean loaded the sawed-off, aiming the muzzle around the room. With no target to shoot at, he started to search every corner of the room for a hex bag, anything to explain what in blazing tarnation was going on.

A strange smell filled the air, the wind continuing to whip things around the room, like dried Autumn leaves.

"What is that smell?" Sam asked.

"I don't know." Dean turned to see Sam peeking into the forbidden 'Porkey's' hole on his side of the imaginary line. "Naked college girls?" he asked.

"Nest of cockroaches." Sam leaned against the wall. "How'd we pick up a ghost?

"Gawd," Dean gagged, the smell and the wind getting stronger. "Sam, go, get out of here."

"Going to hell doesn't make you exden…exten….expendable, Dean," Sam blurted.

"Sam, just get out of here. I'll be right behind you." Dean stood stiff, guarding, ready to shoot should whatever this was materialize.

Sam moved to the door and tugged at the handle. "Go where? Door won't open."

"What do you mean?" Dean glanced briefly over his shoulder.

"What do you mean, what do I mean?" Sam gave Dean a defeated look.

"Take your whiskey goggles off, Sam, and go already."

Sam lifted a foot to kick the door, floundering and barely able to keep upright.

"Here, drunkin' donuts," Dean nudged Sam out of the way. "Hold this." He handed Sam the salt gun. "You forgot to say open says me." Dean yanked on the door handle. Nothing. "Open say's me." He raised his foot and kicked with all his might at the door. "Locked down in lockdown." Dean impatiently kicked at the door to no avail. "Come on," he yelled. "This makes no sense." Dean turned, ducking just as the donut box zoomed his way, so fast it probably would have taken his head off, soggy or not.

"Whoa, Dean, that nearly took your head off," Sam garbled.

"You're brilliant when you're drunk, you know that, Sam?"

"Good one, bro," Sam laughed out loud.

"Brilliant and way too happy," Dean tisked, continuing to sweep the room, trying to get a clue. "Make yourself useful man, try the window," he ordered Sam, dropping down to peer under the beds.

"It's stuck, too," Sam called out.

Dean popped up from under the bed. "Break the glass, Einstein."

"You're absol…absolu…absol-bluely collect." Sam leaned the sawed-off against the wall and snatched a chair. "Why'd I think of that?"

"Because you're absolutely tanked, man." Dean flipped the mattresses off the bed. "I still got nothing." He stood.

Sam flung the leg-end of a chair at the window. No glass shattered, the chair bouncing off the window like the pane was made out of cement.

Sam shook his head at Dean. "We're trapped," he said, retrieving the sawed-off.

The wind died down and all was silent again, the smell gone.

"Gold star for you," Dean shot out sarcastically.

"Jus' sayin'."

"How about ju' sayin' what is going on?" Dean's whole body shook and tensed.

"Do I usually know?"

"Everything," Dean sneered.

"Room's haunted, maybe the whole motel," Sam giggled like a girl who drank one too many daiquiris.

"Smooth, Sammy, real smooth. Can you stop talking crap and try to sober up," Dean sighed in exasperation. "Haunted by what? When? How? Come on, Sam, grow back your brain."

"Dean." Sam looked pale. "The walls are tilting." He took a step, sagging toward the floor.

"Ohhhhh, noooooo. No-no-no-no." Dean took two long steps, shot a hand out and grabbed Sam by the arm, stopping him midway.

"Dizzy," Sam complained, turning a tad green

"C'mon, c'mon, never could hold your liquor, " Dean mumbled. "No passing out." He wrestled Sam back upright.

Sam smiled big, leaning in close enough so that his nose touched Dean's. "I love you, man."

"Okay, Mr. overly touchy-feely." Dean let go his hold and backed away. "How about we do the whole, I'm an awesome big brother thing after we figure out what we're dealing with here. Can't gank what we don't know."

Sam slurred some barely coherent nonsense about a central processing unit.

Dean snapped his fingers. "The laptop."

"That's wha' I said." Sam tossed the salt gun to Dean who caught it deftly, despite the awkward pitch. Sam staggered over to the table reaching for the keyboard, but the laptop was torn away from his grasp and sent crashing into the closest wall. "No, no, no," Sam cried tottering a few steps, but stopping, obviously realizing the laptop was worthless now, smashed into a thousand pieces parts.

Dean and Sam exchanged a look.

"All righty then," Dean said calmly. "Someone doesn't want us busting up their little room party. Now what?"

Sam opened his mouth, bent at the waist and vomited on the carpet.

"Whoa, dude, not the answer I was looking for." Dean stepped forward, stooping a little to get a better look at Sam's face. "Bro, you okay?"

Sam spit out the bits of donut that were left in his mouth, waving Dean off with one hand. "Bathroom window," he gagged, "Small, but maybe…"

Dean immediately took long strides toward the bathroom, but the door slammed shut in his face just as he touched the knob.

"What do you want!" Dean whipped around, shaking in frustration. "You want some of this?" He waved the sawed-off wildly. "Come get it."

The air turned ice-cold, and Sam's giant wiz-kid book came flying across the room - a line drive to the center of Sam's forehead, knocking him away from the table.

"Gah," Sam keeled over.

"Sammy." Dean dropped down in front of Sam, setting the gun next to him and grasping Sam by the shirt, holding him up.

"Owe," Sam gasped, eyes rolling back white.

"Hey." Dean fingered the large goose-egg growing between Sam's eyebrows. "No passing out hangover boy. " Sam's head lolled. "Sam, you hear me?" Dean gave him a little shake. "Sam," he said loudly, giving his brother a harder jolt. You with me?"

Sam's eyes slowly moved back into place staring vacantly at Dean, but he didn't respond.

"Bro." Dean scowled, holding up three fingers. "How many?"

"Chocolate," Sam murmured.

"Dude, you flunked that test." Dean worriedly tapped the side of Sam's cheek. "Come on." Dean tapped harder. "I'll settle for you calling me sweetheart at this point."

"Jerk." Sam shivered. "Room's spinning."

"No it's not, bitch."

"My side is." Sam shook his head, seeming to wake from his daze. "Wha' happen?"

"Got knocked in the head by your geeky book, you remember?"

"Bathroom window," Sam garbled.

"Yeah, that didn't go so well. Got anymore bright ideas?"

Sam wilted against Dean. "None."

"So ever," Dean added. "Come on, let's get you up." Dean put action to his words, grabbing the sawed-off and wrangling Sam to his feet.

"Uh." Sam teetered.

"Over here." Dean led Sam back over to the table, leaning him against it. Dean gave a quick glance around.

One handedness was a skill thier dad had taught them early on. Keeping a tight hold of the sawed-off, Dean nabbed a dirty tee shirt off the floor. He dipped the material into the melted ice in the bucket and wrung out some of the excess water. "Take this." He handed Sam the dripping wad.

"Thanks." Sam held the wet shirt against the lump on his forehead.

"Better?" Dean questioned in concern.

"Stinks," Sam breathed.

"Yeah, you do." Dean's nose crinkled at the breathy smell of whiskey mixed with stomach acid and a dozen Dunkin Donuts.

"No, your shirt, man, it stinks."

Dean leaned forward and took a whiff. "Hold it there anyway, before that goose egg cracks open and your brains leak out." Dean stepped back, scrubbing a hand down his face.

The lights flickered on and off, like a funhouse strobe light. Dean blinked repeatedly, disoriented by the swirling shadows, the funky smell back. What the hell could have gotten past the salt lines? Or had it been waiting dormant for the right time to attack.

"Whatever this thing is, it's playing with us," Dean growled, "Tag. You're it," he yelled.

A yellow orb suddenlyappeared near the ceiling.

"Crap, time to make more donuts." Dean took quick aim and fired. "Take that."

The orb disputed with a shrill screech, plaster and salt spray showering down to dust the carpet.

TBC…

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


	3. Chapter 3

DRUNKIN'

DONUTS

Chapter three

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean shot time and again at the bouncing light. The orb dissipated, but kept coming back for more as if it enjoyed playing tag. The room was a mess, the walls and ceiling full of holes and loose objects strewn about the room - including Sam and Dean.

Sam sat on an overturned mattress, looking teary eyed and all small and wrapped up in himself. He kept garbling something about not giving up, about finding a way.

"Come on, Sam, focus. What the heck is going on? We laid down salt, no spirit could get inside," Dean ranted. "Been stuck in this room for days, now all of a sudden we're haunted." Dean loaded the last of the rock salt pellets into the sawed-off. "This night has been hell."

Sam stiffened. "You say the word like it's some sort of weekend trip to Baja Mexico or something. I don't think I'll be getting a postcard from you saying 'wish you were here." Sam tipped sideways. "If you'd just listen to me. You should listen to me. Why can't you listen to me, Dean? I need you to listen to me. Once in a while you could… hiccup. You could… hiccup. You could," Sam swallowed, "Listen to me, let me help you."

"Sam, can't you stop nagging for one minute and let me think before this thing decides to kick up again?"

"Can't you stop being the hero for once… let me try to save you from hell, Dean?"

"That what this whole drunkin', I'm bored routine is all about?" Dean paused, fixing his brother with a heated stare that could turn vast, blue seas into dry dust. "Sorry, Sam, can't do that." Dean went back to scanning the room. "We got more important things to deal with."

"More important than you being dragged into the pit," Sam uttered, making a face as if someone squeezed lemon juice into his mouth.

"Not the time for this, Sam." The orb reappeared and Dean shot at it, twice, before the sphere vanished for something like the sixty-first time. "Why can't you just let me go." Dean leaned against a wall, cracking open the gun.

"Mannnn u kno, 'cause…" Sam uttered.

"We're out of salt rounds," Dean exclaimed out loud, ignoring whatever it was Sam was trying to say.

"Now what?" Sam hiccupped again.

"More salt in the trunk of the car." Dean tossed the useless sawed-off onto the closest bed. "If we could just get out of here, figure out what we're dealing with," he said, reaching around to the gun in his waist band, but then letting his hand fall away. Bullets regular would do them no good. He raised a fist, hitting the wall behind him. "This sucks."

"I'll find something." Sam weaved about the room, holding on to walls and furniture to keep from falling down. "Has to be something."

Dean watched Sam closely. The kid looked genuinely alarmed, not acting himself. He'd never seen Sam so wrecked, so panicked. So keyed. It was easy to tell his geek brother was scared, and not of the thing in their room either. Sam's anxiety went deeper than any unsolved mystery or whiskey sugar rush making its way through his system. Sam had most certainly - against Dean's orders - researched every bit of information on hell he could find. On the net. In books. Circus tents. Kid had probably even crawled into and searched every dumpster, sewer and Cracker Jack box he could find, searching for his prize - an answer, a way to save Dean. Judging by Sam's drunkenness and wild, bloodshot eyes, the only thing he found out about hell was - it was a terrible place, and no one should ever have to go there.

Dean cringed, he didn't want to know about hell, ignorance was bliss. Besides, he'd find out all about red, horned men armed with pitchforks soon enough.

"There's always something." Sam ran a hand over his haggard face, looking damn near at the end of his rope. "Always a way. We find another way. We don't quit trying. Never. Never, never."

Dean sighed, wondering if Sam was still talking about getting out of the deal or getting out of the room. Damn he hated when the kid tied one on. "What do you suggest, Captain Optimist? Dig our way out with a knife?" Dean asked, dryly.

"Hey, what's that?" Sam straightened.

Blistered, raw hands or not, Dean knew, the kid wasn't about to let go of his rope - ever.

"What?" Dean looked to where Sam was pointing at the ceiling.

"That." A tone of triumph came to Sam's voice. "Ceiling's crumbling like dry crackers."

"Cheap motel," Dean said, "Little rock salt and the whole place comes tumbling down."

"We dig up, not down." Sam scrambled over the room's wreckage finding his duffel and pulling out a hand shove.

'That won't work," Dean said with certainty. "You've watched The Count of Monte Cristo one too many times."

"We have to try."

"You never give up do you?"

Sam glared at Dean for a long moment, dry dust reverted back into vast blue seas. "No, Dean, I don't." Sam's expression hard-edged.

Dean sighed heavily. The whole I'm going, no your not fight was getting old. Sam's will was as strong as his, always had been. When Dean's time came due he might just have to tuck tail and run headlong into the pit before Sam stopped him.

Sam cleared the crap off a dresser with one sweep of his hand and started to shove the furniture across the room. "You gonna help," he huffed and panted. "Or just let yourself be smacked down." Sam's eyes watered. "Because you're better than that, Dean."

Dean took up on the other side of the dresser, pushing while Sam pulled until the dresser was under the ceiling where the damage had been down.

Sam stared at Dean across the dresser top.

Dean sighed, coming around to give his ' brother a leg up. The way Sam was acting he'd of thought the room they were trapped in was hell.

Using the blade of the shovel, Sam started to chip away at the ceiling's plaster "This we'll work." He swiped sweat and blood from his cheek as he continued to peck a hole in the ceiling. "Place is," Sam huffed, "Made out of," he puffed, "Out of." Sam slowed his swing.

"Let me take a turn at that." Dean reached up and took hold of the shovel.

"Don't need your help." Sam tugged the shovel roughly away. "I can find a way out."

Invisible hands suddenly grabbed hold of Sam before he could take another swing sending him and the shovel flying across the room. He slammed into a wall and landed in a tangle on the floor near the window.

"Hey." Dean hurried across the room, dropping down beside Sam.. "Hey, hey." He peered into glazed eyes. "You okay?"

Sam blinked up at Dean through wet, plaster dusted bangs.

"Sam, answer me, and I swear to Gawd if you say chocolate again..."

"Owe." Sam winced.

Dean mirrored Sam's wince. "How's your head?"

"Unfortunately," Sam groaned, "Still attached."

"Let me take a look." Dean swept Sam's hair back. "You're really taking a licking."

Sam opened his mouth.

"Don't say it," Dean warned.

Sam's mouth snapped shut.

"You're really going to have one granddaddy of a hangover/headache. You know the remedy for that, Sam?" Dean glanced around wondering when they would stop being it and get to do some tagging of their own.

"Greasy pork sandwich served in a dirty ashtray." Sam swallowed down several times.

"Nah. Jar of pickle juice served up in cow intestines," he said, watching out for the orb.

"Oh, Gaw." Sam dipped his head. "Rather crack myself in the head with a sledgehammer."

"Yeah," Dean sympathized, knowing the feeling. His attention going back to Sam, he tenderly felt around the goose egg knot in the center of Sam's forehead. " I think the swellings down a little."

"Dean." Sam jolted backward away from Dean's touch.

"Stop being a baby, Sam, you've had worse."

"'Look." Sam grabbed Dean by the chin and swung his head around.

Dean jumped to his feet bringing Sam with him. "Holy mother of…of…of…holy mother," Dean shouted. A black goo-like substance rolled down all four walls much like dripping paint, and plopped in big, chunky gobs to the carpet. "I don't believe this."

"Oh, gah," Sam gagged, "And I thought your shirt smelled bad, that smells like…"

"A giant bowl full of curdled milk, rotten tuna and trapped, dead animal," Dean helped Sam out.

"Ew," Sam's throat convulsed, "Do you have to be so descriptive?"

"Yes, I do."

The black goo continued to bleed through the walls. Sam and Dean already ankle deep in grossness.

"Ectoplasm, Dean. I've never seen so much, we gotta get out of here." Sam sucked in a breath and gagged. "Feel sick." His knees buckled.

"Sam, hold on." Dean grabbed Sam by the arm, the plasma filling the room fast, already at their knees.

"Stuffs thick and sticky, like tar." Dean shifted Sam's weight against him, and turned toward the window.

"It's also like a living entity, it has its own energy, I can feel it."

"Maybe if," Dean shivered at the newfound lousiest word on the planet, "We can get someone's attention they can open the door from the outside."

"No one's out there," Sam dutifully informed, "It's coming down in…"

"Droves. I know." Dean banged on the glass, regardless. "Damn it," he cursed, not seeing so much as a shadow puppet or a nick in the glass.

"Ah. " Sam fell to his knees.

"Sam, stay standing, man," Dean yanked on an arm, but Sam didn't budge. "On your feet!" He hollered drill sergeant style. Dean yanked harder, but his hands were full of gunk and he lost his hold, fingers sliding over Sam's slick slime-covered limb.

"It's pulling me under," Sam cried out.

"Makes two of us." Dean struggled against the rising ooze. The room suddenly fell silent, the spewing ectoplasm stopping.

"Gonna try the door again," Sam said, barely getting to his feet under his own power.

Dean's eyes darted around the room, then he froze. "Sam," he called.

"What?" Sam struggled to push his way through the ooze, grabbing along the wall for support.

"Catch a load of that." Dean pointed a finger at the wall clock.

The cat still wore his happy-go-lucky grin, eyes still frozen and staring left, but something had changed. Dean shivered feeling another cold sweep of air. Chester didn't have a drop of gunk on him, when the rest of the room was coated in black molasses.

"Little busy here, Dean." Sam answered harshly.

"Take a minute out of your busy schedule to check out Chester."

Sam turned and stared past Dean at the clock. "Huh." He titled his head to one side.

"You think the damn cat clock is haunted?" Dean asked, sludging his way toward Chester.

"Uh, sure," Sam said uncertainly. "There is plenty of lore. Time stopping at the moment of a person's death. Tormented souls attaching to possessions. Dolls, furniture, paintings, pianos."

The silence in the room ended as if someone had been listening to every word.

That someone being Chester. Two pairs of creepy cat's eyes suddenly moved, watching Dean. Time unfroze, the hands on the face of the clock moving round and round, faster and faster. Chester's happy-go-lucky grin - turned angry - hissing and growling.

"And creepy ass cat clocks," Dean added.

"Guess so," Sam agreed.

A chilling laugh escaped Chester and something pressed down on Dean's shoulders slowing him further. Something strong. Something evil.

"You bitch," Dean growled and hissed and spat back at the cat. He used every muscle to move forward through the black mass. "Friggin' cat." Dean slowly plowing his way toward Chester, now waist deep in the cold, clammy plasma. "So, what'd you say we kill us some time, huh, Sammy?" Ectoplasm slithered around Dean like a sea monster, slowing his moves to a sloth's pace.

No answer.

"Sam, how do we stop time from ticking?"

Still no answer.

Dean half-spun. "Sam," he called. "Shit." He didn't see his brother anywhere, there was only one way for Sam to go. Under. Dean hurriedly wadded back to where he'd last known Sam to be. Dipping his hands down into the dense gunk, he searched frantically. "Hell of a time to be playing Marco Polo, bro." Dean shuffled about, inch by painful inch, going by feel alone. Sam had to be here somewhere under the black tarp. "Sam," Dean's tone raised in horror. He glanced over his shoulder. Chester's tail swayed back and forth, his living eyes watching Dean's every move. "Let him up, take me if you have to take someone," he yelled.

Chester cackled, not only like he'd swallowed the canary, but a goldfish and zebra too.

It suddenly dawned on Dean why. "I'm already dead," he muttered going back to trawling through the oily blackness. No wonder the thing seemed to be going after Sam rather than him. Dean was frantic. His heart hammering in his chest, then doing a slow, sinking slide down his leg to the bottom of his boots. He'd made his away around the small room twice, and still there was no sign of his brother. Sam couldn't hold his breath too much longer, Dean was certain of that. "You're not killing him," he screamed. "Not after I saved him. Sam, damn you, fight back." A hand suddenly popped up out of the blackness. "Sammy!" Dean pushed against the tide of ooze, fighting to get to his baby brother. He reached out and grabbed hold, gooey-covered hand slapping against gooey-covered hand, fingers interlocking - crushing.

"Ahhh," Dean wailed, now using both hands and yanking with all his might. The ooze seemed to live and fight, pulling Sam back as if the kid were a hooked worm. Playing tag was one thing. Playing tug of war with his brother as if the kid were a wishbone, no friggin' way. "Nooooo!" Dean yelled in agony, nearly dislocating his shoulder as he poured the last of his will into the battle.

Sam's head popped up like a Jack in the Box. His bangs were plastered like wallpaper over his eyes and his entire being was lacquered black.

"You with me?"

Sam's head wobbled on his neck, body quivering and weakly swaying back and forth.

"Hey, hey, hey, I got you, I got you." Dean quickly swiped at the thick gunk off of Sam's face. "You okay?"

Sam tried to answer, but no sound would come. "Guh." He suddenly began to thrash wildly, black goo bubbling out his mouth and nose.

"Shit." Dean tensed, immediately realizing Sam couldn't breathe to well. He frantically glanced around for something he could use to clear the kid's airway. "Easy, easy. Don't panic, help me out, buddy." He battled to maneuver Sam's flailing body over to the wall nearest the window. "Stop fighting, don't panic," Dean mumbled, more to himself than anyone. Gripping Sam with one hand, Dean reached up with the other, ripping the curtain down. "Not cool, man, drowning on ghost ass." Dean scrambled to get to the upper half of the material that was still semi-plasma free. "Hold on, hold on." Using the drapes, he cleaned out Sam's mouth and nose best he could. "You can breathe now, come on, little brother, you can breathe," Dean chanted hopefully, desperate to keep Sam from swallowing any more ghost ass.

Sam wheezed in and out, arms floundering, pathetically fighting for air.

"That a boy." Using the curtain, like gauze, Dean wrapped the material around his index finger and began to poke around in Sam's mouth. "This will help," Dean said, swiping more and more of the black, vile crap out.

Sam gagged, and Dean could feel little spasm's running through his brother's body.

"Deep breath." Dean pulled Sam's hair back out of his eyes.

"Uhhhh," Sam drew in a few deep breaths, his arms falling limp to his sides.

""Easy." Dean hugged him close.

Sam whimpered, his chin resting on Dean's shoulder, sucking in breath after choking breath.

"You back with me?"

Sam rasped, all floppy in Dean's arms.

"You still alive?" Dean eased Sam away from him, rubbing his knuckles hard and fast against Sam's sternum. "Dude?"

Sam moaned, "Not sure, smooth…smothered in ecto.." Sam spit and choked.

"Really." Dean searched around for higher ground. "I hadn't noticed." There was nothing. Even the dresser Sam had been standing on had overturned, succumbing to the black ooze.

"Spiritual cleansing." Sam squinted at Dean. "Then kill time."

"With what? Everything we own is completely covered in slime. No lighter, no matches, no holy water." Dean waved a hand at the growing river of puke. "And we're next."

"Can you stop with all the glass half empty bit, Dean."

"What you suggest, Sam? I don't see a cute little waitress offering free refills. Of course I could do some satanic hokey pokey ritual, the chicken dance, shake my booty."

"Over there." Sam nodded. "The hole in the ceiling," he muttered.

Dean turned to see rainwater dripping down through the opening. "Holy water." He smiled, pulling a rosary from his pocket. Some folks never left home without their American Express. Winchester's never left home without their rosary. "Hold tough, little brother." Dean started to make his way over to the dripping water, in awkward herky-jerky movements. He needed to catch the rainwater in…"Son of a bitch." He glanced around, there was nothing, no cup, no dirty ashtray, no donut box, no salt - a key ingredient in creating holy water - everything coated black.

"Use your mouth, Dean, for something other than babbling."

Dean's eyes went wide. "Huh." He shoved the rosary under his tongue; this was where the salt came in. He only hoped the salt in his saliva would be enough as he continued toward the dripping rain.

Talk about unprecedented. Chanting a prayer in your head, because your mouth is full of rosary and rainwater, would that even be considered holy? He had to try.

Chester made a horrible meowing screech.

"Dean, watch out."

Dean whirled just in time to see Chester detach himself from the wall, eyes bulging, gaping mouth full of jagged teeth sailing straight for him. "Course, cats hate water."

In a lumbering, ungraceful play, Sam managed to shove Dean out of the way, reaching up to intercept Chester.

"Dean, brahhh," Sam grunted, struggling to hang on to the cat, keep Chester's snapping jaws away from his face. "Hurry, aw," Sam cried as unseen claws stripped his right cheek bloody.

"Sammy." Dean turned to head back to his brother.

"I got it, finish," Sam ordered in a deep voice.

Dean turned back, not sparing another look, but he could hear as Chester spat and growled. Could hear Sam's stammering breaths as he fought the animated cat off.

Sobering realization sucked. Dean couldn't protect Sam and recite the rite to create the holy water that would hopefully aid in killing time - at the same friggin' time. He nearly laughed at the double idiom. He shuffle walked through the thick jelly-like ooze, building up saliva. Standing directly under the ceiling, he caught drops of rainwater in his mouth. Blocking out the sound of his little brother being pounded by Chester, he concentrated hard as he began to recite the rite silently in his head.

_Deus, qui ad salutem humani generis maxima quæque sacramenta in aquarum substantia condidisti: adesto propitius invocationibus nostris, et elemento huic, multimodis purificationibus præparato, virtutem tuæ benedictionis infunde; ut creatura tua, mysteriis tuis serviens, ad abigendos and….and…_

Dean stuttered over the words, his mind invaded by the sound of Sam's goo-filled gasps and Chester's crazed meows. The ectoplasm splashed and tugged at his pant legs. He shuffled slowly from foot to foot, trying to keep his balance, figuring the less he moved the longer he could keep from falling facedown into the muck.

_dæmones morbosque pellendos divinæ gratiæ sumat effectum; ut quidquid in domibus vel in locis fidelium hæc unda resperserit careat omni immunditia, liberetur a noxa. Non…non…non…'eh…_

Dean's mind strayed.

Sam was wounded. Sam was weak. Fighting against time, sinking, drowning. Dean could hardly think when between sputtering breaths, his brother added voice to the prayer, snapping Dean back into focus.

"illic resideat spiritus pestilens, non aura corrumpens: discedant omnes insidiæ latentis inimici; et si quid est quod aut incolumitati habitantium invidet aut quieti, aspersione hujus aquæ effugiat," Sam gasped between sputtering breaths.

For a moment Dean marveled at how his brother could possibly know at what point he was at in the prayer.

The ending words to the rite came in unison, said by Sam and thought by Dean.

"ut salubritas, per invocationem sancti tui nominis expetita, ab omnibus sit impugnationibus defensa. Per Dominum, amen.´´

Dean whirled so fast he nearly tripped and fell. He bent his knees for balance, trudging through the ectoplasm back to where Sam was currently rolling around in the muck, trying to gauge Chester's eyes out with his goo-coated fingers.

Everything seemed to happen in warp speed.

Dean grabbed hold of Chester and spit what he hoped was now holy water into the cat's face. Sam flew backward, banging against the wall, a rush of breath leaving him.

'You try to drown my brother." Dean grabbed hold of Chester and shook hard.

"Hsssssssss, krissssssssssshhh," Chester spat, eyes rolling like dice in his head.

Dean was barely able to stay on his feet, waist deep in crap. He held tight to Chester with one hand, using his other to try and pull the hands off the clock's face.

Chester snarled and growled clicking its teeth - the attached spirit making its last stand. Dean kept his grip tight on the cat as a whirl of wind roared and a sucking noise drowned out its anger. The ectoplasm turned into a churning, spinning whirlpool. The water tornado was strong, the current would soon drag Sam and Dean down, like a giant bathtub drain.

From across the room their eyes locked onto one another in desperation. Both caught in the deadly grip, and trying to stay a head above the black vortex.

"De!" Sam gurgled as he slip-slided about, but the slime was powerful, cresting over his head.

"Sammy!" Dean's heart jumped into his throat and he went to his knees. "Sam!" With the last of his strength, Dean cried out. "Ahhhhhh!" His slick fingers somehow gained a hold, ripping the hands off and crippling the clock.

Time seemed to stop then roll backward, ectoplasm splashing and roaring like the sea. Dean took in a deep breath and held it tight in his chest, hoping his brother was doing the same. The room tossed and spun him about like he was inside a washing machine. Objects smacked into him from every direction, lights and colors flashing like bolts of jagged lightning. The pressure in his lungs grew and grew. Dean strained, fighting against the instinct to breathe, not knowing which end was up. Everything suddenly went ebony black, quiet, cold and still.

TBC….

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


	4. Final chapter

DRUNKIN'

DOUNTS

FINAL CHAPTER FOUR

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Swish

Swish.

A sickening, rancid mud smell invaded his nose. Dean gasped and his eyes opened. At first he saw nothing but black. He was exhausted, his body hurt and gawd what was that horrible smell? He slowly rose up to his knees. Hacking and coughing, he surveyed the damage. The room was trashed, black goo dripping off the walls, overturned furniture, forming puddles here and there on the carpet.

Swish

Swish.

He spied Chester, hanging back on the wall, time ticking away as if nothing had ever happened. The clock's normal happy-go-lucky grin and roving left to right eyes, followed by the annoying swish, swish of the cat's tail - once again ticking time away.

Dean didn't care if the thing seemed not to be possessed any longer, Chester was so toast. But first…

"Sam." Dean tore his gaze from the clock, eyes landing on his brother.

Sam lay by the wall where he'd been thrown face down in the carpet, clothes saturated black.

"Sam." Dean crawled on hands and knees over to his brother. "Sammy." He flipped Sam over onto his back. Unable to see the rise and fall of his brother's chest through the layer of gunk, Dean took hold of Sam's shoulders and shook hard - a floppy brother his only response. "Jesus." Dean bent down low, turning his head and pressing an ear near Sam's mouth and nose. He listened intently. "No," Dean swallowed nervously, not hear a thing, not a gurgle, not a moan, not a wheeze. "No, no, no." Sam couldn't be, he wasn't dead. Dean's ears were just plugged with ghost shit. "No way!" He shouted. "You don't get to do this. Up an' at 'em, solider," he shouted in Sam's face, military style.

Sam's eyes popped open wide. Startled, he sat bolt upright. "Guh." A spray of black crap shot out his mouth and nostrils. "Wh'? D'y' ge… get…" he squeezed his eyes shut, unable to stop shaking or coughing.

"Easy, now." Up on his knees, ramrod straight, Dean took Sam by his shoulders, and firmly stated, "Bro, it's over."

Sam's head just lolled and he wheezed in and out like an asthmatic, mouth open and eyes rolling up white.

"Dude." Dean held Sam up by his shirt sleeve. He reached around with the other, slapping his back with the flat of his hand; much the way he used to when Sam was young and had swallowed down the wrong way.

Thump

Thump

Thump

"Cough it up," Dean ordered. "I'm all right, you're all right, we're all right, Sam, just cough it up."

Sam's head fell loosely back.

"Hey, hey." Dean caught the back of Sam's neck, and drew him into his personal space against his chest. "No blacking out." His flat palm turned into a balled fist. "I said, cough it up." Dean's lower lip quivered.

Sam couldn't seem to stop wheezing.

"Sam."

Pound.

Pound.

Pound.

"Come on." Dean struck his brother's back harder, desperate to dislodge the gunk that was inhibiting his brother's breathing, yet again.

Sam squirmed weakly in Dean's hold.

"Stay calm. You can breathe," Dean said, more for himself then for Sam.

With each chest-rattling cough, Sam's troubled breathing slowly but surly became a little easier.

"That's it, just breathe, little brother." Dean stopped pounding, in exchange for rubbing vigorously up and down.

"D'n," Sam muttered into his shoulder.

"Yeah," Dean breathed, "I got you." He relaxed back onto his heels.

Sam started to pull away, obviously attempting to stand.

"Just give yourself a minute." Dean gripped the back of Sam's neck firmly.

Dean blocked out Chester. Blocked out time. Blocked out the premise of hell paying attention to nothing but Sam. Who's minute was this, anyway? Just as much Dean's as it was Sam's. He was going to miss Sam. He wanted to tell him so. Wanted to tell him it was fun being his brother. Sam made life good, fun, easier to bear. He gave Sam a gentle squeeze. Okay, it wasn't just a squeeze it was a hug, a goodbye hug. Who knew when he'd get the chance again without making it seem weird.

Sam choked back what to Dean sounded like a sob.

Enough of that. Dean eased Sam forward, looked him in the eyes and smiled.

Sam gave a small shake of his head, staring back, looking as if he wanted to say something, but didn't.

Dean read the words in Sam's watery eyes. 'You don't get to say goodbye.'

Dean wanted to say something to, but actually saying it wasn't the Winchester way. Instead he said, "You ready?"

Sam nodded.

"Easy, just hold it right here." Dean leaned Sam against the sticky wall. Quickly he raced around the room, pulling Chester off his hook, gathering their gunk stained gear, save for the destroyed laptop. "Can you stumble out of here?" Dean asked, coming back to stand in front of Sam, hands full of their gear and Chester.

"I think," Sam panted. "Where we going?" He pressed back against the wall for support.

"Anywhere but here, I don't care if we have to spend the next few days in the Impala, 'till that road clears."

"Could be days," Sam noted, pushing up the wall to stand, Dean gripping his forearm for added support. "Almost killed each other in the motel room and you want us to camp out in the car now?"

"Look, Princess Castle-Lot, I've had it with this motel, and the parking lot is free. We're gone."

"But…"

"Don't but, just do, Sam."

Sam took a deep breath and nodded.

They headed out the motel door, splashing their way through the falling rain, across the pitted parking lot. Sam swayed back and forth his shoulder brushing against Dean's.

Dean was careful to match Sam's unsteady gait step-for-step, keeping a close eye on his kid brother. The pelting rain was cold, but the shower felt good doing a great job of rinsing them off of leftover ghost shit.

With each step, Sam's pace slowed. He shook his head a little moan escaping.

"You gonna make it?" Dean side glanced at Sam, observing how pale his brother's face had turned, even through the dark falling rain.

"If you make it, I make it," Sam muttered despondently.

Dean tensed, he couldn't help but fear what was rattling around in Sam's brain now.

Just as they reached the car, Sam's strength gave out and his feet jumbled. He reached out, both hands slapping to the hood for support, head bowed.

"Sam?"

"Just tired." Sam ran a hand down over his eyes, blinking away drops of rain.

"Hold it there a second." Dean hurriedly opened the trunk, tossing their gear and Chester in. He grabbed two bottles of water, making a mental note to burn the cat the moment the rain let up. Slamming the trunk shut, he headed back to Sam. "Okay." He took Sam by the forearm. "Come with me, drunkin' donut, let's get you stretched out in the backseat.

"Shotgun," Sam called.

Dean just nodded, wrangling the kid's soggy ass into the passenger seat and lifting his long legs stuffing them into the foot well.

"Sure you're all right up here?" Dean reached over the bench seat grabbing a blanket and tossing the cover over Sam. "Sam?" Dean bent down to peer into his brother's half-open eyes.

Sam wiggled slumping back against the seat. "Sure you really want to go to hell?" His gaze lingering on Dean.

Dean kept a straight poker face, ignoring the question. "Wait here." He handed Sam the bottles of water. "I'm going to talk to the motel manager, check us out of this dump." He gave Sam a hardcore stare. "Just make sure you don't puke in my car." Dean slammed the door shut.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Not long after:**

The minute Dean left the motel office the howling wind swept rainwater across the lot and drove huge, cold drops into his face. He shrugged deeper into his jacket. This was more like it he thought, rain you could not only see, but hear.

"Don't care how much it costs," Dean said, "Next place we stay at is going to be the Ritz Carlton, Barbies Princess Castle or Bikini Bottom," he grumbled shoving his empty wallet into his jeans pocket. Motel cheap as shit wasn't so cheap, as he'd given the motel manager extra for the damages Chester had incurred.

Nearing the Impala, Dean squinted through the curtain of water. A flash of lightning revealed a figure butted up against the rear tire, crouched on the balls of his feet, head hung low.

"Stupid, son of a…" The crack and roll of thunder drowned out the rest of Dean's curse as he raced toward Sam.

"Goooooooooooowwwwwwwwddddddd." Sam bent further forward to puke in the space between his boots, but only a dry tortured sound left his throat. "Gahhhh." He rocked unsteadily back and forth, nearly toppling over to one side.

"Sam." Dean crouched next to Sam, and put a hand to his shoulder. "Tell me you didn't puke in the car, man"

"What's happening?" Sam sagged toward the ground, his right hand splashing into the puddle before him, struggling to hold himself up.

"Crash and burn, time," Dean muttered, palming Sam's forehead and easing him back against a tire, not caring at all they were soaked to the bone.

"Wha…uhhhh." Sam trembled with chills.

"It's called dry heaving, Sam, final stages of being drunk. You're lucky. I don't think you have a concussion, but you're going to have one ginormous headache."

"I already…" Sam immediately hunched forward away from the tire to throw up again, but nothing came out. "Dee," he gagged. "Geeze, oh, gaaaaa," he violently retched, spitting nothing but saliva. "Make it stop," Sam begged. "Gotta sto…uh, please, " he gacked, like a cat spitting up a hairball. "Jus, not like Dad," Sam sobbed.

"Yeah, pal, I get it." Dean nodded. "That's where my hands are tied, bro."

"I just Waaaana…" Sam bowed his head, gagging harder. "I jusssss…" Every muscle in Sam's body tightened and convulsed, the dry heaves continuing mercilessly.

Dean winced. "Dude, don't fight so hard, only makes matters worse. Believe me, I understand. Been there."

Sam peered sadly up at Dean, through wet bangs.

It was cruel what Dean had done. Selling his soul. Dean knew the guilt. He knew the pain Sam was going through, sure as he knew the pain of drinking too much. Dean did a quick run through in his mind. His father had sent his soul to hell for him. He could picture his father swimming through fire, burning, screaming among the twisted dead, and lost souls Suffering, eternally tortured - all for him. How could Dad do that? Dean didn't deserve to be saved, but Sam did. Kid had to learn, there was no stopping the deal. Dean wouldn't allow it. He was destined to burn - or freeze - whatever it was you did in hell. He was scared, sure. Who wouldn't be, but he wouldn't let himself slip down that slop. He had to think of Sam. Sam was all that mattered now. Poor kid was fighting a long, hard losing battle. Dean's heart hammered in his chest. Going to hell made everything that was wrong - right again. What bothered him, what cost him the most, was seeing Sam's pain. Here and now.

"Grrr," Sam clenched his teeth snapping Dean back to the present.

"Easy, come on, Sammy, easy now," Dean shushed his brother searching his face through the downpour.

For a moment Sam seemed to relax, shoulders sagging, head dipping further.

"Can't, I can't do thi…uhhhhh." Sam trembled, wrapping his arms around himself. "I can't."

"Yes you can," Dean said, knowing Sam wasn't talking about the dry heaves, that was the least of the kids worries. There was no backing out. He had to keep his game face on. Needed to spend what little time he had left with Sam, hunting, being brothers, being family. "Sam." Dean ran a hand down Sam's back. "I'm sorry."

And he was. Truly he was. This was no flesh wound; it was a kill shot to Sam's heart. Dean took no pleasure in watching his brother's pain. What the deal was costing his little brother. He couldn't blame Sam for being angry with him. If it was impossible for Dean to deal with the guilt his dad left him with, it had to be unbearable for Sam. When his dad went to hell, Dean still had Sam. This go around, Dean would be leaving Sam - alone in the world. He should feel guilty for that, and he did. But not enough to risk the cost of alternative. It was just too high a price for Dean to think about, let alone have to pay. Sam was John's boy, sure, but he was Dean's too. He was strong. He would be okay.

"I'm sorry," Dean repeated, barely in a whisper. "I am. I can't take this away, Sam. You have to just," Dean paused, "You have to let go. You're strong. You can let go." Dean bit his lip. "For me."

Sam elevated his head slightly, tossing his wet bangs out of his eyes. "No," Sam grit out his teeth. "Won't." He gave Dean a cold, hard bloodshot stare. "Not ever," he said, dropping his head and going back to choking and spitting in the puddle between his feet.

Dean smiled sadly, there were no choices here. "Hang in there, little brother, it'll get better," he said, huddling close to Sam trying to blocks the rain that flew sideways at them.

"Screw you." Sam dropped ass-end to the wet pavement with a heavy splash.

"Yeah, okay, let's get in the car and get dried off." Distract and detour, Dean's famous game plan.

"No."

Dean sighed, "Don't you even want to know what the mousy looking motel manager told me?" More attempts to divert.

"No."

"You don't want to know about how his mother and father owned this motel. How his mother loved cats. So much so that for years every stray cat that came along got an entire motel room to themselves. Free room and bored for life. How he found out his father took up feeding the animals at night, but really had turned the cat's house into a cathouse - for real. How one fine day his mother also found out about the cathouse, catching her loving husband in the act," Dean cleared his throat, "of interviewing a new prospect for his harem.

"So."

Ignoring Sam, Dean went on. "How during a rainstorm just like this, one year ago tonight, they had a huge fight. Her husband got so angry at her for threatening to take him for every penny he owned…"

"Don't care," Sam garbled.

"Dude, he slaughtered every single one of her beloved cats before running off with his employees of loose morals."

"Doesn't matter."

"You don't want to know about how the wife locked herself in that bloody room for weeks after that, along with the rotting, dead bodies of her beloved cats - barely eating or drinking. She wouldn't let her son in to help her, threatening him that she'd kill her self if he even tried to come in."

"You suck," Sam said angrily.

"Bro," Dean groaned. "Let's get in the car and I'll tell you the rest." Dean reached for Sam's arm to pull him up.

"No." Sam flinched away.

"Fine," Dean continued his story, "Her son," he waved a hand toward the front office. "Mousy motel manager guy, he finally couldn't take it anymore and busted down the door. He was too late. Found his mother dead. Her eyes were wide open and staring at the cat clock on the wall, and still surrounded by her twenty-two dead cats. The cat clock had stopped at - guess what time," Sam.

"Three."

"Right. I figure all the plasma wasn't just from her, but those poor cats. Guess what else?"

"This all happened in the room we've been staying in."

"Also, right."

"And you want to know something else?"

"You kiss the girls and make them cry," Sam gave Dean a lopsided grin.

Dean drew back, squinting disbelieving at Sam through the downpour. "Dude, are you drunk or hung over? Make up your mind."

"Both," Sam gagged, spitting to the ground. "What else?"

"There are forty-five rooms in this joint and she had decorated every one of them with identical cat clocks. You know what that means?"

"Means Chester has forty-five lives, and you have one." Sam's face twisted in anger. "One, Dean." He balled a fist, drew back and swung at Dean, poor judgment nearly sent him face first to the ground

"Okay, donut king," Dean grabbed Sam by the arm. "Enough. Back in the car."

"No." Sam's body went bow-string tight. "Staying right here, 'til you stop trying to stop me," Sam said, lips pressed tight.

"So," Dean sighed, "That's your big plan? A sit in."

"Sit out."

"That plan include catching your death of cold." Dean looked skyward at the rainstorm still coming down in droves. "You're dripping wet, Sam, let's go."

"Don't care."

"In the car."

"No."

"You want shotgun again or the back?"

"Nu…"

"Pick one Sam or it's the trunk for you."

A jagged bolt of lightning lit the sky purple.

"Sam," Dean growled. "Let's go before I get zapped early."

"Front." Sam shuddered.

"You sure you wouldn't rather stretch out in the back this time."

"Front, next to you."

"Sounds crowded to me." Dean grasped Sam around the chest and muscled him to his feet for what felt like the thousandth time that day.

"Sounds out of harm's way to me."

"You really are trashed."

Dean briefly marveled at his - tinted green - brother's stubbornness. He could hear the desperation in Sam's voice, saw the rapid rise and fall of his chest - panic in every breath.

"Uh-huh." Sam's eyes slid closed.

"In you go."

Sam didn't struggle it was obvious the kid was exhausted. Dean opened the passenger door and arranged Sam as gently and comfortably as he could.

He stared at Sam a moment, irrationally wanting to turn time back. Back to when they were kids. He never used to be conscious of time. Never was a clock watcher, until now. Now he noticed every second, and didn't want to waste another.

Dean quietly shut the door and slipped in behind the wheel. He leaned his head back and stared out the windshield. Glad for the rain that raced down the glass. Second after second, each drop mimicking the tears that wouldn't fall down his face. He wished he could stretch his year out forever. He turned his head slightly, studying Sam in the glass. The kid's reflection made him look younger, vulnerable. Hell didn't scare Dean as much as leaving Sam behind, unprotected.

Maybe by tomorrow night they'd have burned all the Chester clocks and the river would recede enough for them to get gas and head out of town. He wanted to make the most of the time he had left. Go fishing, play a few rounds of put-put, share a Christmas, maybe get drunk - together this time.

Dean briefly wondered if he burned all the Chester's of the world, could he stop time, stop the deal from happening.

"I'm still going to try to save you." Sam's slurred, eyes still closed. "Going to do whatever it takes."

"And I'm still not going to let you," Dean said softly.

"Hey." Sam slowly slanted toward Dean.

"What?"

"I hate you, man," Sam said, half turning to face Dean, gravity and drunkenness still working against him.

Dean instantly understood. The word transcended all they felt for one another. It was their secret word. They always said it to one another as kids. A trick. Their way to keep up the manly Winchester bravado and avoid chick-flick moments.

"A lot," Sam added, finishing his slow sideways slide until his nose thumped and planted firmly against Dean's shoulder. Once again Sam was out, drooling and snoring like a lawn mower in a deep, dark cave.

Dean wiggled an arm behind his brother's back and adjusted his head allowing Sam to use his shoulder as a makeshift pillow, so the kid could breathe easy and rest.

Leaning his head against the cool glass, Dean attentively listened to Sam's heavy breathing. Not minding the close quarters at all.

"I love you, too, man." Dean barely whispered, "A lot."

The 'Blah, blah, end.

**AN: Chester was based on the 1930's Kit-Kat wall clock The novelty, animated cat clocks with large shifting eyes, and swaying tails was created during the Great Depression. The idea, to help cheer people up and give them a smile during the trying times. I always thought the things were creepy and just wanted to write a story based around Felix (also known as, Chester, according to Dean). Plus a wet, drunk, hurt Sam…can't resist that. Thank you so much for sticking with this kooky little dream.**


End file.
